Born to Be Wild Page 4

  He was going out of his way to help her, too. What would it hurt to meet him halfway?

  “All right. Just give me a moment to get my purse and car, and I’ll follow you.”

  “I weave in and out of traffic. You’d never keep up with me.” He smiled, satisfied, more than likely, because he thought he was going to get his way. “Come on,” he said, coaxing her, his voice turning suddenly seductive. “The bike doesn’t bite, and neither do I.”

  She had her doubts.

  “Do you need some assistance, Miss Remington?” she heard Charles ask from the doorway.

  “I’m not quite sure.” She moved a bit closer to the big black machine Max was straddling. She had to be out of her mind to even consider riding on the back of the massive bike. Getting on a motorcycle—especially one driven by Max Wilde—had to be dangerous. Then, again, would living dangerously be all that bad?

  Drawing in a deep breath, she called out to Charles over her shoulder. “I’m going with Mr. Wilde. Could you get my handbag, please. The silver Prada.”

  “You’re sure?” Charles asked.

  She looked at the big black motorcycle again. She looked at Max’s boots planted on the driveway, scanned the length of his powerful legs, his flat stomach, and the muscles in his arms. The tail of the mermaid swished as his biceps flexed, and she allowed her gaze to trail slowly up his arm to the ring in his ear, to the mustache and goatee, to the grin on his face.

  For one more moment she contemplated the utter foolishness of zooming off with a stranger whose mood changed from one tick of the clock to the next, then turned to Charles and said, “I’m sure.”

  Max chuckled, and she snapped back around to look at the smirk on his face.

  “May I ask what’s so funny?” she asked.

  His eyes darted to her ice-blue silk pants suit, to the diamond solitaire at her throat. “Silk. Diamonds.” He shook his head and chuckled again. “You’ve got to be the most well-dressed woman I’ve ever had riding behind me.”

  “Thank you,” she said, gracious enough to keep a snide retort from sliding over her tongue. She would have changed into something more practical, but she didn’t own leather pants. Besides, she doubted he would have given her time to change, considering the hurry he was in. And, to be quite honest, she was anxious to see how it felt to ride something so powerful.

  She slid her hand over the leather seat, and her fingers rested mere inches from Max’s jeans-clad bottom. “Are you sure there’s room enough for two?”

  Max eyed her up and down. The last man who’d done that was Peter, right before he took her to that snooty fat farm in the English countryside, insisting that she lose twenty extra pounds before their wedding. Peter’s gaze had always been critical; Max’s gaze was altogether different—hot-blooded and erotic, making her quiver inside.

  “Climb on,” he said, taking hold of her hand and clasping it against his stomach, obviously something one did for balance. “There’s more than enough room.”

  Taking a deep breath, she swung her right leg over the seat and felt her body slide exceedingly close to his. Her breasts squashed against his back, her thighs grazed his thighs, and her heart thundered. Oh, dear!

  He slipped his hand over her leg, taking liberties she hadn’t expected.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” she asked, tugging his fingers from the back of her knee.

  His hair blew in the breeze and tickled her nose as he glared at her over his shoulder. “Helping you put your foot on the peg.”

  A likely story. “Thank you, but I’m sure I can do that myself.”

  Shaking his head, no doubt annoyed—again— he gripped the handlebars as she lifted one silver spiked heel from the pavement and put it on the shiny chrome peg. Her strappy sandals, not to mention her ice-blue silk pantsuit, weren’t exactly biker mama gear, but they’d have to do for now.

  Her right foot found its way to the other peg, and she rested her hands on her thighs. She wasn’t about to wrap her arms around the owner of Born To Be Wild Catering. That seemed far too personal, and this was a business trip, nothing more.

  Peering over Max’s shoulder, she could see him lift his helmet from its resting place between the handlebars. “Put this on,” he said, turning halfway around in his seat and unceremoniously slipping the heavy helmet over her head.

  “What about you?” she asked, her words muffled as he fastened the strap under her chin. “Isn’t it against the law to ride without a helmet?”

  “I’ll take my chances.”

  The motorcycle jerked when he released the kickstand, and his thighs rubbed against hers. When he started the engine, she could feel the vibration between her legs, and it pulsed faster and stronger as he twisted the ends of the handlebars to rev the motor. She hated to admit it, but the sensations were sinfully delightful.

  “Here’s your handbag, Miss Remington,” Charles shouted to her over the roar of the engine. “Is there anything else you’d like?”

  “No, Charles,” she said, latching on to the Prada, as if it were her only lifeline between craziness and sanity. She should be worrying about what seedy part of town Max Wilde planned to take her. She should be wondering if he drove sensibly, or if he had a streak of Evel Knievel in him. She should be afraid that she’d never see her family or her home again. But at the moment, the only thing bothering her was the fact that a whole lot of her body was touching a whole lot of this brash and fascinating stranger.

  “You have Mr. Wilde’s phone number if you need to reach me,” she shouted to Charles through her helmet.

  “Very well, Miss Remington,” he shouted back, then smiled slyly. “But I will do my best not to interrupt you.”

  Lauren knew quite well what Charles was insinuating by that statement. How could he possibly think she was interested in a man like Max Wilde? When she returned home, she’d inform him that she’d gone with Max Wilde only to expedite the arrangements for Betsy’s wedding, and not to go jumping to conclusions.

  Max revved the engine again. “Ready?” he asked, looking at her over his shoulder.

  Smiling weakly, wondering one last time if she’d lost her mind, she slipped her arms around Max’s waist, giving up on propriety for the sake of safety. “Ready,” she answered, as bravely as possible.

  The machine beneath them rumbled. Her heart beat wildly, and she could hear Max’s laughter as the motorcycle streaked down the driveway. “Hold on tight,” he hollered against the rush of wind. “You’re in for the ride of your life.”

  Three

  “What is it that you don’t understand about leaning with the bike when we go around a corner or take a curve?”

  Did she have to listen to Max’s lecture again? Lauren wondered, feeling a tad foolish standing in the shade of a palm on the corner of Cocoanut Row and Cocoanut Walk, wearing a not-quite-fashionable motorcycle helmet that afforded her only a small measure of anonymity.

  They were far too close to the chamber of commerce and Flagler Museum for comfort, and she knew that many prying eyes must be lurking behind their windows.

  Max, on the other hand, didn’t seem to care where they were or who was listening. He just sat on his motorcycle, arms folded stiffly across his chest, with a scowl on his face, no doubt annoyed because they’d had a similar conversation at the corner of Ocean and Worth.

  “There’s nothing I don’t understand,” she explained for the umpteenth time, “but could you please keep your voice down so everyone in Palm Beach doesn’t hear how disgruntled you are?”

  “I’m not disgruntled, and I am keeping my voice down. You, however, didn’t listen to a word I said earlier about leaning with the motorcycle, not against it.”

  “I did listen, but I can’t quite grasp the concept of why I should take the chance of having all my skin painfully ripped to shreds, just because you get a thrill from leaning dangerously close to the ground. Really, Max, it’s bound to be safer to lean in the other direction.”

  “Look, I alr
eady gave you the technical explanation, all the whys and wherefores of gravity and balance, so let me just tell you this. If you and I lean in opposing directions, I might lose control of the motorcycle and when that happens, both of us are going to take a dump, we’re both going to lose skin, and I’ll have a very expensive motorcycle that’s in need of extensive repairs.”

  “So why don’t we both lean in the same direction ... and I don’t mean toward the ground?”

  He sighed, obviously perturbed. “Because leaning against the turn goes against the laws of physics.”

  “Physics was never one of my better courses in school. I just barely squeaked by with a D-minus, and my mother was so upset that she called the teacher, told him that she gave a lot of money to the school, and that I deserved at least a B or C. Unfortunately Mr. Fawcett wouldn’t budge, so Mother pulled me out of that private school and sent me to another.”

  She was going to tell Max that changing schools hadn’t made her any better in math or the sciences, but an all-too-familiar black Lamborghini, the one owned by her ex-husband Chip, cruised by at a very slow speed, making her forget anything vaguely resembling school. The darkly tinted driver’s window lowered as Chip pulled the vehicle over to the curb.

  A frown formed on his face as he studied her unconventional attire. “Good Lord, Lauren, what on earth are you doing here, and wearing a motorcycle helmet, no less?”

  Lauren patted the shiny black fiberglass surrounding her head. “It’s a new fashion statement. Hadn’t you heard that riding a motorcycle is all the rage in Europe?”

  His continued smirk said, loud and clear, that he didn’t believe her, but she didn’t see the need to justify what she was doing, especially to Chip. Slowly, his cool appraisal traveled to the motorcycle and to Max, who’d abandoned the bike and strolled confidently toward the car.

  “I’m Max Wilde,” he said, sticking out his hand.

  Oh, dear! Chip was being his usual boorish self, inspecting Max’s hand, obviously to make sure it was suitable to touch, before he shook it quickly. “Chip Chasen,” he said, and continued to stare at Max. “Have we met? You look oddly familiar.”

  A semi-grin tilted Max’s mouth, what you could see of it beneath the mustache. “We may have met at one or two parties in the past.”

  Why hadn’t she thought of that? Obviously he’d catered other parties she’d attended and that’s why he looked familiar to her.

  “You have family in Palm Beach, then?” Chip asked. “Newport, perhaps?”

  Max’s grin deepened, and for the first time she noticed the dimple off to the right of his mustache. “West Palm Beach,” he stated, definitely the wrong thing to utter in front of Chip, who considered anyone from West Palm Beach to be a second class citizen.

  Chip frowned. “I see,” he said, his snobbery so thick Lauren wanted to crawl inside the helmet and hide. As if Max had ceased to exist, Chip turned away and addressed Lauren.

  “I lunched with your mother at the Ritz when I was in London last week. She tells me you’re giving up this wedding consultant—”

  “I’m a wedding planner, not a consultant.”

  “Either way, she tells me you’ll be dispensing with this nonsense right after Betsy Endicott’s wedding.”

  “That’s wishful thinking on Mother’s part.”

  His eyes flicked toward Max again. “Does she know about your current... hobby?”

  Lauren saw no need to point out that Max was a caterer, not a hobby—Mother wouldn’t approve of Max in any capacity. Chip Chasen was her mother’s idea of the perfect man. He was the embodiment of every negative cliché about the filthy rich, but at nineteen Lauren had been too naïve to notice.

  She’d fallen in love with his sophisticated good looks and what she’d perceived as charm. He’d complimented her, he’d always wanted her by his side, and his close-knit family had embraced her and made her one of them.

  She’d hoped they’d have children together and looked forward to having her own close-knit family, but after their honeymoon, Chip rarely shared her bed. He told her she hadn’t done anything wrong, said he was perfectly content with what they shared in their marriage—which wasn’t much, and she’d wanted so much more. When she realized she’d fallen out of love with him, when she was positive he’d never be a good husband or father, she’d asked for a divorce.

  How they’d remained on speaking terms for the past ten years amazed most of Palm Beach society. He might have been a lousy husband, but deep, deep down under that handsome exterior was a lonely rich guy. There was no point in disliking him, it was impossible to avoid him, and he seldom bothered her.

  But right now, Chip was an annoyance she didn’t need.

  “It was very sweet of you to stop and say hello,” Lauren said, “but I’m sure you’ve a horse race or something important to get to.”

  “Actually, I’ve just bought partnership in a colt named Satan’s Triumph. His sire retired with earnings of over three million, and I fully believe Satan’s Triumph will soon be winning one stake after another. I’m off to see him now.”

  “Well, give him my best,” Lauren said, blowing Chip a goodbye kiss, wishing he’d hurry on his way.

  “I’ll do that.” Chip laughed as he blew a kiss in return. “See you Saturday at Betsy’s wedding,” he said, his words fading as the Lamborghini whizzed away from the curb.

  “Nice guy.”

  Lauren couldn’t miss the cynicism in Max’s voice as he swung a leg over his motorcycle.

  “He has his good points,” Lauren admitted. “He’s very good at tennis, he does a mean fox trot, and—”

  The grin forming on Max’s face brought her rationalization to a halt. “What’s so funny?”

  “I always wondered why you married him. I should have known it had something to do with his tennis game and the fox trot.”

  “Those are not the reasons I married him,” she said, swinging her leg over the motorcycle, wishing they would continue on their way. And then his words hit her. She tapped him on the shoulder and he tilted his head toward her.

  “This is the second time you’ve brought up my marriage to Chip. Do you have some personal vendetta against him?”

  “I just keep wondering why you married him when you wanted to run away the night before your wedding.”

  She laughed. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. I was in love with Chip. Yes, marrying him was a mistake, a foolish mistake,” she admitted uncomfortably. “But I never wanted to... to...

  “To what?” he asked, his all-too-familiar intense brown eyes boring into her.

  “Oh, dear.”

  The dimple next to his mouth deepened as his grin grew wider. “Something troubling you?”

  She glared at him through the visor of the helmet, thankful that he couldn’t see her embarrassment. “You’re the man who poured champagne on my gown, aren’t you?”

  “Afraid so. I’m also the one who distinctly heard you say you wanted to run away—with me.”

  “I don’t recall those being my exact words. I think I wished I could run away.”

  “Wished. Wanted,” he quipped. “It’s all the same thing.”

  She wondered why something so insignificant, something that had happened ten years ago, could make her feel so uncomfortable now. Then she realized it was because Max wanted her to feel uncomfortable. He wanted to make her feel miserable about that moment, and he was doing a darn good job of it.

  “I was nineteen. I was nervous, scared half out of my wits,” she explained. “Whether I wished it or wanted it doesn’t matter. It was a crazy thing to say and I regretted it later. But you. You were older—”

  “I’d just turned twenty.”

  “Old enough that you should have laughed it off.”

  “I did.”

  “You expect me to believe that? You’ve spent the past couple of hours stomping around my home as if you were annoyed with me. You’ve been terse, rude, and you’ve used your motorcycle a
s an instrument of torture. If you weren’t acting out your aggressions for some silly little mistake I made ten years ago, if you weren’t trying to get back at me for hurting your feelings, then what, pray tell, were you doing?”

  His jaw tightened. So did his eyes. Suddenly he turned around and kick-started the engine.

  She tapped him on the shoulder again, but he didn’t look at her. Could he possibly be sulking? Had he really thought she would run away with him, when her comment had been nothing more than the verbal musing of a young, foolish, and very nervous girl?

  Suddenly she remembered him showing up the next morning, his bravado when he’d said he’d come to take her away. Men could be so confident, so sure of themselves in every situation, while she was sure of so little.

  The only thing she’d been sure of that morning was that she wouldn’t end her marriage to Chip before it had begun. She’d been raised by a mother who considered divorce the rule rather than the exception and had a father who bounced from one blond bimbo to the next. She wanted a different kind of life—and she’d hoped to have it with Chip.

  But Max hadn’t known that. He’d only heard her say she wished she could run away with him, he’d believed her, and she’d hurt him. That bothered her terribly.

  This time when she tapped his shoulder he jerked around.

  Lifting the visor so he could see the concern in her eyes and not mistake her words for something being said just so she could get what she wanted from him, she said softly, “I did want to run away that night. I doubt you can understand this, but I was afraid I couldn’t live up to Chip’s expectations, afraid he didn’t love me as much as I loved him. But... but running away frightened me, too.”

  “You don’t owe me any explanations.”

  “Maybe not, but I do owe you an apology. I’m sorry if I hurt you.”

  He laughed. “Apology accepted. Now, can we get going? I’ve got other business to take care of.”